“Frances, I excuse your feelings, but the time will come, when you will do me justice.”
“That time is now,” said the maid, extending her hand, unable any longer to feign a displeasure that she did not feel.
“Where got you this note!” exclaimed the youth, glancing his eyes over its contents. “Poor Henry, you are indeed my friend! If any one wishes me happiness, it is you.”
“He does, he does,” cried Frances, eagerly; “he wishes you every happiness; believe what he tells you--every word is true.”
“I do believe him, lovely girl, and he refers me to you for its confirmation. Would that I could trust equally to your affections!”
“You may, Peyton,” said Frances, looking up with innocent confidence towards her lover.
“Then read for yourself, and verify your words,” interrupted Dunwoodie, holding the note towards her with eyes that sparkled with every passion but anger.
Frances received it in astonishment and read the following:
“Life is too precious to be trusted to uncertainties. I leave you, Peyton, unknown to all but Cæsar, and I recommend him to your mercy. But there is a care that weighs me to the earth. Look at my aged and infirm parent. He will be stigmatised for the supposed crime of his son. Look at those helpless sisters that I leave behind me without a protector. Prove to me that you love us all. Let the clergyman that you will bring with you, unite you this night to Frances, and become at once, brother, son, and husband.”
The paper fell from the hands of Frances, and she endeavoured to raise her eyes to the face of Dunwoodie, but they sunk abashed before his eager gaze.
“What say you!” said Peyton, with an insinuating voice; “am I worthy of this confidence? will you send me out against your brother this night, to meet my own brother? or will it be the officer of Congress in quest of the officer of Britain?”
“And would you do less of your duty, because I am your wife, Major Dunwoodie? in what degree would it better the condition of Henry?”
“Henry, I repeat, is safe. The word of Harper is his guarantee; but I will show the world a bridegroom,” continued the youth, perhaps deceiving himself a little, “Who is equal to the duty of arresting the brother of his bride.”
“And will the world comprehend it all?” said Frances, with a musing air that lighted a thousand hopes in the bosom of her lover. In fact, the temptation was mighty--indeed, there seemed no other way to detain Dunwoodie until the fatal hour had elapsed. The words of Harper himself, who had so lately told her that openly he could do but little for Henry, and that every thing depended upon the gaining of time, were deeply engraved upon her memory. Perhaps there was also a fleeting thought of the possibility of an eternal separation from her lover, should he proceed and bring back her brother to punishment. It is difficult at all times to analyze human emotions, and they pass through the sensitive heart of a woman with the rapidity and nearly with the vividness of lightning.
“Why do I tarry, dear Frances,” cried Dunwoodie, who was studying her varying countenance with rapture; “a few minutes might give me a husband’s claim to protect you.”
The brain of Frances whirled. She turned an anxious eye to the clock, and the hand seemed to linger over its face, as if with intent to torture her.
“Speak, my Frances,” murmured Dunwoodie; “may I summon my good kinswoman--determine, for time presses.”
Frances endeavoured to reply, but could only whisper something that was inaudible, but which her lover, with the privilege of immemorial custom, construed into assent. He turned and flew to the door, when the maid recovered her voice--
“Stop, Peyton; I cannot enter into such a solemn engagement with a fraud upon my conscience. I have seen Henry since his escape, and time is all important to him. Here is my hand; it is now freely yours, if you will not reject it.”
“Reject it!” cried the delighted youth; “I take it as the richest gift of heaven. There is time enough for us all. Two hours will take me through the hills, and by noon to-morrow, I will return with Washington’s pardon for your brother, and Henry will help to enliven our nuptials.”
“Then, meet me here in ten minutes,” said Frances, greatly relieved by unburthening her mind, and filled with the hope of securing Henry’s safety, “and I will return and take those vows which will bind me to you forever.”
Dunwoodie paused only to press her once to his bosom, and flew to communicate his wishes to the priest.
Miss Peyton received the avowal of her niece, with infinite astonishment and a little displeasure. It was violating all the order and decorum of a wedding to get it up so hastily, and with so little ceremony. But Frances, with modest firmness, declared that her resolution was taken--she had long possessed the consent of her friends, and their nuptials for months had only waited her pleasure. She had now promised Dunwoodie, and it was her wish to comply--more she dare not say without committing herself, by entering into explanations that might endanger Birch, or Harper, or both. Unused to contention, and really much attached to her kinsman, the feeble objections of Miss Peyton gave way to the firmness of her niece. Mr. Wharton was too completely a convert to the doctrine of passive obedience and non-resistance, to withstand any solicitation from an officer of Dunwoodie’s influence in the rebel armies, and the maid returned to the apartment, accompanied by her father and aunt, at the expiration of the time that she had fixed. Dunwoodie and the clergyman were already there. Frances silently, and without the affectation of reserve, placed in his hand the wedding ring of her own mother, and after some little time spent in arranging Mr. Wharton and herself, Miss Peyton suffered the ceremony to proceed.
The clock stood directly before the wandering eyes of Frances, and she turned many an anxious glance at the dial--but soon the solemn language of the priest caught her attention, and her mind became intent upon the vows she was uttering.-- It was quickly over, and as the clergyman closed the words of benediction, the clock told the hour of nine. This was the time that Harper had deemed so important, and Frances felt as if a mighty load was at once removed from her heart.
Dunwoodie folded her in his arms; saluted the spinster again and again, and shook Mr. Wharton and the divine repeatedly by the hands. In the midst of this excess of rapture a tap was heard at the door.--It was opened, and Mason appeared--
“We are in the saddle,” said the Lieutenant, “and with your permission will lead on; as you are so well mounted, you can overtake us at your leisure.”
“Yes, yes--my good fellow--march,” cried Dunwoodie, gladly seizing an excuse to linger; “I will reach you at the first halt.”
The subaltern retired to execute these orders, and was followed by Mr. Wharton and the divine.
“Now, Peyton,” said Frances, “it is indeed a brother that you seek; I am sure I need not caution you in his behalf, should you unfortunately find him.”
“Say fortunately,” cried the youth; “for I am determined he shall yet dance at my wedding. Would that I could win him to our cause--it is the cause of his country, and I could fight with more pleasure, Frances, with your brother by my side.”
“Oh! mention it not! you awaken terrible reflections.”
“I will not mention it,” returned her husband; “but I must now leave you. Tom Mason moved off at a famous rate, and the fellow has no orders.---But the sooner I go, Frances, the sooner I will return.”
The noise of a horseman was heard approaching the house, with great speed, and Dunwoodie was yet taking leave of his bride and her aunt, when an officer was shown into the room by his own man.
The gentleman wore the dress of an aid-de-camp, and the Major at once knew him to form part of the family of Washington.
“Major Dunwoodie,” he said, after bowing courteously to the ladies; “the Commander-in-Chief has directed me to give you these orders.” He executed his mission, and pleading duty took his leave immediately.
“Here, indeed!” cried the Major “is an unexpected turn in the whole affair; but I unders
tand it--- Harper has got my letter, and already we feel his influence.”
“Have you news affecting Henry,” cried Frances, springing to his side.
“Listen--and you shall judge.”
“Sir
--Upon receipt of this, you will concentrate your squadron, so as to be in front of the enemy’s covering party to their foragers, by ten o’clock to-morrow, on the heights of Croton; where you will find a body of foot to support you. The escape of the English spy has been reported to me, but his arrest is unimportant, compared with the duty I now give you. You will, therefore, recal your men, if any are in pursuit, and endeavour to defeat the enemy forthwith.
Your’s Respectfully, George Washington.”
“There, thank God,” cried Dunwoodie, “my hands are washed of Henry’s re-capture; I can now move to my duty with honour.”
“And with prudence too, dear Peyton,” said Frances, with a face as pale as death; “remember, Dunwoodie, you leave behind you new claims upon your caution and care.”
The youth dwelt on her lovely but pallid features with rapture, and as he pressed her hand to his heart, exclaimed--
“But why this haste? I can reach Peekskill before the troops have breakfasted, if I start some hours hence. I am too old a soldier to be hastened or disconcerted.”
“Nay! go at once,” said Frances, in a hurried voice, with a face whose bright tints would have shamed a ruddy morn--“neglect not the orders of Washington.--And oh! be prudent--be careful.”
“For your sake I will, lovely innocent,” cried her husband, folding her to his heart for the last time. Frances sobbed a moment on his bosom, and he tore himself from her presence.
Miss Peyton retired with her niece, to whom she conceived it necessary, before they separated for the night, to give an abundance of good advice on the subject of matrimonial duty. Her lecture was modestly received if not properly digested. We regret that history has not handed down to us this precious dissertation; but the result of all our investigation has been to learn that it partook largely of those peculiarities, which are said to tincture the rules prescribed to govern bachelor’s children. We will leave them, and return to Captain Wharton and Harvey Birch.
CHAPTER XVI.
“Allow him not a parting word;
Short be the shrift, and sure the cord!”
Rokeby
The pedlar and his companion soon reached the valley, and after pausing to listen, and hearing no sounds which announced that pursuers were abroad, they entered the highway. Acquainted with every step that led through the mountains, and possessed of sinews inured to toil, Birch led the way in silent activity, with the lengthened strides that were peculiar to the man and his profession--his pack was alone wanting to finish the appearance of his ordinary business air. At times when they approached one of those little posts, held by the American troops, with which the highlands abounded, he would take a circuit to avoid the sentinels, and plunge at once fearlessly into a thicket, or ascend a rugged hill, that to the eye seemed impassable. But the pedlar was familiar with every turn in their difficult route, knew where the ravines might be penetrated, or where the streams were fordable. In one or two instances, Henry thought that their further progress was absolutely at an end, but the ingenuity or knowledge of his guide conquered every difficulty. After walking at an incredible rate for three hours, they suddenly diverged from the road which inclined to the east, and held their course directly across the hills in a due south direction. This movement was made, the pedlar informed his companion, in order to avoid the parties who constantly patroled in the southern entrance of the highlands, as well as to shorten the distance, by travelling in a straight line. After reaching the summit of a very considerable hill, Harvey seated himself by the side of a little run, and opening the wallet, that he had slung where his pack was commonly suspended, invited his comrade to partake of the coarse fare that it contained. Henry had kept pace with the pedlar, more by the excitement natural to his situation, than by the equality of his physical powers. The idea of any halt was unpleasant, so long as there existed a possibility of the horse getting below him in time to intercept their retreat through the neutral ground.--He, therefore, stated his apprehensions to his companion, and urged his wish to proceed.
“Follow my example, Captain Wharton,” said the pedlar, commencing his frugal meal; “if the horse have started, it will be more than man can do to head them; and if they have not, other work is cut out for them, that will drive all thoughts of you and me from their brains.”
“You said yourself, that two hours detention was all important to us, and if we loiter here, of what use will be the advantage that we may have already obtained?”
“Them two hours are passed, and Major Dunwoodie thinks little of following two men, when hundreds are waiting for him on the banks of the river.”
“Listen!” interrupted Henry; “there are horse at this moment passing at the foot of the hill. I hear them even laughing and talking to each other. By heavens! there is the voice of Dunwoodie himself, and he calls to his comrade in a manner that shows but little uneasiness. One would think that the situation of his friend would lower his spirits: surely, Frances could not have given him the letter.”
On hearing the first exclamation of the Captain, Birch arose from his seat, and approached cautiously to the brow of the hill, taking care to keep his body in the shade of the rocks, so as to be unseen at any distance, and earnestly reconnoitred the passing group of horsemen. He continued listening, until their quick footsteps were no longer audible, and then quietly returned to his seat, and with incomparable coolness resumed his meal.
“You have a long walk, and a tiresome one before you, Captain Wharton; you had better do as I do--you was eager for food at the hut above Fishkill, but travelling seems to have worn down your appetite.”
“I thought myself safe then, but the information of my sister fills me with uneasiness, and I cannot eat.”
“You have less reason to be troubled now, than at any time since the night before you was taken, when you refused my advice and offer to see you in safety,” returned the pedlar. “Major Dunwoodie is not a man to laugh and be gay, when his friend is in difficulty. Come, then, and eat, for no horse will be in our way, if we can hold our legs for four hours longer, and the sun keeps behind the hills as long as common.”
There was a composure in the pedlar’s manner that inspirited the youth, and having once determined to submit to Harvey’s government, he suffered himself to be persuaded into a tolerable supper, if the quantity be considered without any reference to the quality. After completing their repast, the pedlar again resumed his journey.
Henry followed in blind submission to his will. For two hours more they struggled with the difficult and dangerous passes of the highlands, without road or any other guide than the moon, which was travelling the heavens, now wading through the flying clouds, and now shining upon objects with a brilliancy, second only to her great source of light. At length they arrived where the mountains sunk into rough and unequal hillocks, and passed at once from the barren sterility of the precipices, to the imperfect culture of the neutral ground.
The pedlar now became more guarded in the manner in which they proceeded, and took divers precautions to prevent meeting any moving parties of the Americans. With their stationary posts he was too familiar to endanger his falling upon them unawares. He wound among the hills and vales, now keeping the highways and now avoiding them, with a precision that seemed instinctive. There was nothing elastic in his tread, but he glided over the ground with enormous strides, and a body bent forward, without appearing to use exertion, or know weariness.
The moon had set, and a faint streak of light was beginning to show itself in the east. Captain Wharton ventured to express a sense of fatigue, and to inquire if they were not yet arrived at a part of the country where it might be safe to apply at some of the farm-houses for admission.
“See here,” said the pedlar, pointing to a hill a
t a short distance in their rear; “do you not see a man walking on the point of that rock? Turn more, so as to bring the daylight in the range-- notice, now he moves, and seems to be looking earnestly at something to the eastward. That is a royal sentinel, and two hundred of the rig’lar troops lay on that hill, no doubt sleeping on their arms.”
“Then,” cried Henry, “let us join them, and our danger is at once ended.”
“Softly, softly--Captain Wharton,” said the pedlar, drily; “you’ve once been in the midst of three hundred of them, but there was a man who could take you out; see you not yon dark body on the side of the opposite hill, just above the corn-stalks? These are the--the rebels--waiting only for day, to see who will be the master of the ground.”
“Nay, then,” exclaimed the fiery youth, “I will join the troops of my prince, and share their fortunes, be it good or be it bad.”
“You forget that you fight with a halter around your neck--no, no--I have promised one whom I must not disappoint, to carry you safe in; and unless you forget what I have already done, and what I have risked for you, Captain Wharton, you will turn and follow me to Harlaem.”
To this appeal, the youth felt unwillingly obliged to submit; and they continued their course towards the city. It was not long before they gained the banks of the Hudson. After searching for a short time under the shore, the pedlar discovered a skiff, that, from his movements, appeared to be an old acquaintance; and entering it with his companion, he landed him on the south side of the Croton. Here Birch declared they were in safety; for the royal troops held the continentals at bay, and the former were out in too great strength for the light parties of the latter to trust themselves below that river, on the immediate banks of the Hudson, from a dread of having their retreat cut off.
Throughout the whole of this arduous flight, the pedlar had manifested a coolness and presence of mind that nothing appeared to disturb. All his faculties seemed to be of more than usual perfection, and the infirmities of nature to have no dominion over him. Henry had followed him like a child in leading-strings, and he now reaped his reward, as he felt the bound of pleasure at his heart, on hearing that he was relieved from apprehension, and permitted to banish every doubt of his security.
The Spy, Volume 2 Page 21